


To Kamasylvia

by YakFruit



Category: Black Desert Online (Video Game)
Genre: Adult Content, Adventure, F/M, Male Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 10:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24967864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YakFruit/pseuds/YakFruit
Summary: Kamasylvia, the secretive forest kingdom of the elves, has opened its gates to the adventures of the northern human lands.  Gymir, a giant and veteran of the Calpheon army, hears that the Queen of Kamasylvia is calling for mercenaries and adventurers. Being short of both coin and work, Gymir decides to travel south into that mysterious land.
Relationships: Giant/Elf
Kudos: 4





	To Kamasylvia

Rain streamed down Gymir’s steel helm and dripped coldly onto the back of his neck. It did little to improve his gradually darkening mood. He was hungry. He didn’t like to be hungry. He’d joined the Calphonian army for the single purpose of not being hungry, and until this week, it was a fair bargain.

Gymir, like most male members of the giant race, was gifted with over ten feet of height and three feet of shoulder breadth. He used that size to swing a big sword at the enemies of Calpheon. In return, Calpheon paid him and fed him. Until now. It was a day and a half since he last ate and Gymir’s stomach grumbled in complaint- it was a real stickler for keeping agreements.

He was standing guard near the command tent, and the rain made a steady, pattering cadence upon the canvas, punctuated by the tinny plinks of droplets hitting Gymir’s helm. Other soldiers kept their distance- they knew Gymir was hungry. They were hungry too, but, well, they were humans; A generally patient and orderly race. Yet every human knew that one should feed a hungry giant, and if that was impossible, one should stay the hell away from the hungry giant.

The unit’s lieutenant, Ebert Smithand, did not have the luxury to avoid Gymir’s hunger. Gymir was his unit’s giant. Gymir killed the enemy and protected his men. And he ate lots of food. The supply of which was dwindling and rationed. A problem he was attempting to solve with the captain in the command tent. There was a general din from the rain striking everything around- tents, armor, wagons, crates, soldiers... but Gymir could make out the conversation within:

“...know he’s hungry. All the men are hungry, damnit! I can’t give a single soldier preference over any other. When the wagons get here, he’ll eat, just like the rest of them!”

“Sir, Gymir is worth ten of our best men, we-”

“Yes, and he eats as much as fifteen! Look, lieutenant. You bloody well know that the larder is practically empty- the soldiers will be eating their leather in two days- what ones have not deserted by then. There is simply nothing to give the oaf, whether I want to or not. He can stay and be hungry, or hang with the deserters when they get rounded up.”

“What about your personal stocks, sir?”

A silence.

“My personal stock? A soldier receiving subsidies from an officer’s personal stores!” the captain’s voice rang with scandalization. “Where would it stop? Should I feed all my men just because they are hungry?!”

Gymir’s ears perked up. Officers in the Calpheon military were generally members of the nobility- mostly performing their patriotic roles for status and prestige amongst their own ilk in high society. The modest salary of an officer was a pittance to such people, and the common meals of the soldier far below the quality they were accustomed. Thus, it was custom for the gentile officer to bring a significant supply of the high-quality goods for themselves. It was for officers only, and like how the noble and common parts of Calpheon City were separated by a river, the social circles of common soldiers and officers were divided by a much more impassable barrier than mere flowing water: social convention.

“Don’t be ridiculous, lieutenant. You forget your place. The giant can wait and eat with the rest of the common grunts when the wagons finally unstick from the mud.”

A native Calphionian would probably take that as the way of the world and shuffle off hungry and depressed. Gymir had not grown up close to the city, so he mostly lacked that indoctrination. And he was a giant. And he was hungry. And now he knew there was food in the captain’s tent, which he always knew, but now he was actually thinking actively about it. Why should he be hungry when all the food was just in there? Did this not violate the agreement between himself and the military?

Gymir decided he was going to eat. And he was going to eat right now. He gathered up a double handful of the tent canvas. Hesitated. There was no going back after this, was this really a wise idea? His stomach growled angrily, churning painfully with emptiness.

Fuck it.

With a surge of his muscular frame, Gymir ripped the tent open. Some of the nearby support poles snapped loudly, punctuating the loud snarl of tearing canvas. Two men stood in the center of the homey tent, surrounded by fancy furniture and standing on rugs. One of the men was in uniform, that was Smithand, Gymir’s commanding officer, a strong, grizzled veteran who made the rare jump from enlisted to officer. And the other man was a stiff, moustached man in a filly shirt. The unit commander, Sir Alfred Gerdberry.

But most importantly, Gymir looked past them and saw a large table laden with a feast. The captain was hosting a party tonight, it seemed, and the centerpiece was a massive smoked turkey.

“My tent!” said Sir Gerdberry, swelling up with indignation.

“Gymir! Are you mad?” said Lieutenant Smithand. He put his hand reflexively on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw.

Gymir stepped through his new doorway, stooping to fit into the human-sized command tent. But he still loomed over the officers. Sir Gerdberry began to pale and seemed unable to say whatever he wanted to say, his mouth quivering with something, his skin paling. Smithand looked grim, as any wise man would when faced with the possibility of combat with a giant.

But Gymir wasn’t paying attention to them, he only had eyes for the laden table of food. He walked past the two stunned humans, set hands to the turkey, and ripped off a leg. The smell of smoked meat was delightful. Gymir drooled slightly as he took the first bite.

“My bird!” squealed Sir Gerdberry. “Lieutenant, control your man!”

Gymir turned and looked Lieutenant Smithand in the eyes; giving him a level, serious look while chewing his way through half a turkey leg. Smithand had been out there with Gymir and their other comrades. Shoulder to shoulder in the blood and the shit, holding back the lizardman vanguard. They’d saved each other’s lives more than once. But that was battle. This was mutiny.

Gymir swallowed his first bite and pointedly took another- baring his teeth deliberately. Trying to send a clear signal to Smithand: Stay out of this, Ebert.

The lieutenant's hand loosened slightly on his sword hilt.

The Gedberry’s head snapped back and forth between Smithand and Gymir. “Lieutenant! I order you to arrest this insubordinate soldier!”

Smithand’s hand tightened again. Gymir stopped chewing. He’d known he would get into trouble, but the possibility of his own brother-in-arms being ordered to apprehend him… that had not come to mind. Kind of obvious, now that it was happened. Gymir cursed himself for a fool. He hadn’t thought past the damn turkey leg.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Smithand reluctantly drew his sword. “Yes, sir.”

This was not what Gymir wanted. He could kill Smithhand easily, and Smithhand knew it. But Ebert Smithand was a career soldier and he would attempt to carry out his orders or die trying. And Gymir was not interested in harming his comrade, he was also not about to let himself be captured and hanged for two bites of a turkey leg, either. Even if Ebert was a friend.

Ebert advanced a step, sword menacing. Gymir’s mind raced for some solution to his unexpected puzzle. Ah! Several months ago, their unit found a lizardman scout which seemed dead when they set up camp. But when one of the soldiers drunkenly began hitting the corpse with a stick, the creature sprang to life and ran hissing through the camp.

“Lieutenant,” said Gymir, his bass voice booming out the strong vowels, “Do you remember that lizardman scout we caught on that ridge?”

Lieutenant Smithand blinked, then a look of recognition came across his face.

“I hope that might happen to you, too,” said Gymir.

Lieutenant Smithand looked confused for a moment, then there seemed to be a dawning of understanding across his brow. Gymir could not be sure they were on the same page, but he needed to make his move, too much hesitation would cast doubt on the impending drama.

Gymir sprung forward, letting the turkey leg drop from his hand, his long legs closing the gap between himself and Smithand in a single stride. With a sweeping backhand blow, Gymir’s forearm cuffed the lieutenant across the head. The man collapsed to the gound, sword still in hand, his eyes closed. Gymir hoped he had taken the edge off the blow enough- humans could be so fragile.

Sir Gedberry began sputtering, eyes wide, backing away. “Hold- hold on, soldier! Don’t do anything else you may come to regret!”

The man’s eyes were shifting throughout the room, looking for something. A weapon, perhaps? So desperate, he may actually be considering fighting himself? Gymir wasn’t worried about that. He became worried the man would suddenly get the idea to yell for more soldiers. Gymir pounced upon him, one massive palm clapping over Gedberry’s face (his palm far too big to target just a mouth, and the top three fingers of his other hand slowly and menacingly wrapping around his throat.

“Don’t shout, or you die,” growled Gymir.

Gedberry’s eyes were wide, peeking between the splayed fingers of Gymir’s suffocating face grab. But he nodded frantically against Gymir’s palm. so Gymir removed his hand from the man’s face, and loosened the grip on the man’s throat.

“This is treason! You’ll hang!” gasped Gedberry

“Yes, if this were treason. But that’s not what this is,” said Gymir.

Gedberry’s eyes stopped their frantic dance and they focused on Gymir’s. “It’s- it’s not?”

“No. No. This is my discharge. You’re discharging me from the army thanks to my loyal service.”

“I am?” The man’s voice was calming slightly, too. Hopefully, his mind was coming out of its panic and he was starting to think again.

“Yes. There is not enough food here for a giant, so it no longer makes fiscal sense to keep me enlisted. So, you decided to discharge me. You’re going to go over to your little desk, take up your little feather, and write up two discharge papers. One for me, and one for the army. And we are all of us going to leave happy, healthy, alive, and scandal-free.”

Sir Gedberry blinked a few times as his political mind began calculating. Gymir hoped he knew what was going on in the man’s mind: Gedberry could attempt to maintain his authority and stop Gymir’s current banditry, but since Gymir literally had him by the throat, he would probably die. But assuming Gedberry somehow survived, he would face political and professional ridicule for having to put down one of his own giant soldiers. Gymir bet that the man would rather take the option to sweep it all under the rug.

“Yes, of course, Sir... giant. That would be better for everyone, wouldn’t it? How rude of me before, but if you would kindly?...”

Gymir removed his hands from Gedberry’s throat.

“Thank you. I will get your papers ready immediately.” He smoothed down his tunic, his hair, and with a deep breath, strode for the desk on the other side of the tent.

Gymir watched him get started, then turned to the fallen Lieutenant Smithhand. The man’s eyes were squinted open. He gave a brief, broad grin to Gymir, then returned to his unconscious act. Playing dead so Gymir could escape this situation... It was repayment of the life-debt between them, as far as Gymir was concerned.

With nothing to do but wait for Sir Gedberry to write the paperwork, Gymir returned to the turkey. He ripped off the other leg and bit into it, gazing around the tent. The captain had it set up like a luxurious apartment. Furniture. Rugs. A cabinet of dishes of all things. There was even artwork hanging from the tent walls. And a mounted weapon: a large war axe. Large by human standards anyway. For Gymir, it was a hand axe.

He approached the display weapon for a closer inspection: It was mounted loosely by clips on a wood frame which hung from the canvas- but surely the axe was some sort of replica, because canvas could not hold the weight of an axe this size.

The head of the axe was flat with the top of the haft. The blade was large and elegantly curved, engraved with carvings of eye-catching designs. It was a fancy piece of craftsmanship, looking simultaneously gilded and functional for war. Too bad it was a replica. Gymir lifted it off its mounting and hefted it with wonder. It was light, but solid. Gymir could tell this was something special, just by the feel of it in its hand. This was not a replica; it was something strange; something excellent; something that shouldn’t collect dust as a decoration for some noble poof’s tent.

“I’m taking this in lieu of backpay,” Gymir told the captain.

The captain looked up, saw the axe in Gymir’s hand, paled, but nodded sheepishly and returned to his writing.

* * *

The town of Behr was more hunting camp than town- just a meeting place where some industrious traders decided to replace their perpetual tents with rough log buildings. The southern forests of Calpheon were rife with hobgoblins, treants, the undead- but most importantly, game animals and lumber. Trade was always booming for those with the bravery to enter the dark woods, and skilled enough to emerge again alive. For Gymir, lizardmen and the Calpheon army were a comfortable distance away.

But so was good work for good pay. Gymir barely made enough coin by hunting and lumbering during the day to keep himself fed and inebriated each night. It was an entertaining existence after several long years in the army, but the novelty was beginning to wear off. He could find no satisfaction in a life like this; A cyclical existence which served to enrich the trader and the innkeeper until his body gave out or something in the woods finally got the best of him. One day, he would go into the woods and never come back out, and no one would notice. His body likely eaten by whatever got him, too, forever lost to the homeland of his people.

And the tavern didn’t have a mug suitable for a giant, so he was forced to use a bucket. That was also getting old. The ale had a bad habit of sloshing around the corners of his mouth because the bucket’s rim was not angled enough to properly control the liquid inside. It would get on his clothing and he would smell like ale for.. well... forever. Come to think of it, the smell of ale was in his nostrils constantly these last few weeks.

I need to stop drinking and get out of this mudpit, Gymir thought to himself. He then took a big swig of ale from his drinking bucket.

He was squatting on a large tree stump that passed for a giant-sized stool near the woodstove. The perpetual rain and mist of these forests was seemingly impossible to escape. Even after hours by the stove, his pants still had damp spots. But he was alone by the fire, which he preferred. The capital was a ways away, but it was much safer to be some nameless giant getting work done than some word of ‘Gymir the Giant’ traveling up the trade roads to the city. One could never be sure the captain he’d accosted would stay in his course, or change his mind and decide to seek more back-alley forms of revenge. Gymir might not need to worry, as it was unlikely anyone would be eager to know him even if he’d been in a more gregarious frame of mind.

Human men were usually insecure with their physical size, so they were unlikely to initiate relationships with giants who averaged about twice their height; however, when forced to by happenstance, they generally got along just the same as any two humans did. Meanwhile, other giants were common in this town as well, but the rigid nature of their own clan-based society did not lend itself to extroverted attempts to meet fellow giants.

Most giants involved in human affairs or human society were outcasts, descendants of outcasts, and other such relatives cast out from the giant tribes, either recently or generations ago. There was no going back. No time limit on the exile of a genetic line. An individual giant, separated from the homeland by three generations, ignorant of the sensitivities of those more recently exiled, can easily and accidentally drive a fellow giant to violent response with seemingly innocent inquiries. And thus exile parents caution their exile offspring the dangers of their own kind. So, giants everywhere tended to avoid acknowledging their kin unless previously introduced.

The rumble of human voices and clanking tools announced the arrival of a group of loggers. They ordered their drinks and food and arrayed themselves around one of the larger tables near the fire. They paid Gymir no mind. He was just another giant.

“Gods, I’m sick of this wet. Longest wet season I can remember.”

“Speaking of wet, I’d like to get my dick wet. Why ain’t there any women in this shithole of a town?”

“You wouldn’t want any woman willing to work a place like this, lad. Trust me.”

“And no woman would be willing to work you, either. Trust me.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

The group erupted in laughter at their youngest member.

“Speaking of women! You ever see one of those Kamasylvian women? With the long ears?”

“I seen ‘em in the City a few times. Beautiful, all of em, despite their weird ears; Long legs, great hips, supple breasts. I would spend months of pay just for a night with one of them.”

“I hear their ears twitch when you fuck ‘em.”

“I’d love to see that!”

“Ha! If those folk come up north out of their woods, they’re either warriors or nobility. Neither of which would give you a second’s thought.”

“So that makes them exactly like human women, doesn’t it?”

Laughter.

“Their homeland is just south of here isn’t it? Over the mountains?”

“Yeh, but they don’t let anyone in. Anyone trying to go over the mountain never comes back, and if you head down the south road a ways you will come to the border. It’s all walled off and there are those women everywhere! But all armed to the teeth and none too kind to anyone getting closer than their liking.”

The innkeeper arrived at their table and began passing out flagons of ale to mumbled thanks. He joined the conversation: “You know, just the other day a messenger was passing through on the way to Trent from the City. He says that the Kamasylvian queen sent a message to the Senate. There is some trouble or some such and she wants Calpheon to tell all its warriors, mercenaries, and adventurers that there is sword-work needed doing in Kamasylvia; and coin enough to be made doing it, too.”

“Can we get paid in pussy?”

“With your face? You’d need to slay a dragon.”

“Two dragons.”

Laughs all around as the innkeeper shook his head, picked up his empty tray, and returned to his kitchen.

Their talk then turned to other matters, none of those men with ambitions beyond the next day of labor and the next drinking session. They were happy enough, in their hedonistic cycle, but that was not the life Gymir favored. His soul yearned for more intense experiences, more adventures, and the mystical land of Kamasylvia sounded like the perfect place. He stood up and exited the tavern, leaving behind a half-full bucket of ale.

* * *

The road south rose steadily into the foothills of the mountains. Dampness faded away into dryer air, the wind having deposited most of its moisture back in the north over Behr and its dark woods. This road was narrower, less traveled. Gymir was closer to the forbidden border of Kamasylvia than any human settlement, so legitimate traffic would be sparse here. Though, there were signs of recent passage; horse droppings, fresh wheel ruts from laden wagons. Signs which indicated the innkeeper’s rumor was accurate: people were traveling south with some purpose in mind.

Gymir walked on foot, but his massive strides ate up distance like a lazy horse, so he made good enough time. He was struggling to keep himself fed, so a horse large enough to carry his massive bulk was not something he could afford. He was just another lone giant on the road, carrying a rucksack that no human could lift. A close eye would spot the armor under his coat, and that the axes hung at his hips were for flesh and not for wood, but eyes of any variety were a rare thing on this road. No other traveler had passed him since he left the main road between Behr and Trent, the two most southern settlements in the human-dominated empire of Calpheon.

Gymir rounded a bend in the road and a hundred yards ahead lay an obviously disabled wagon, heavily laden with crates and sacks of varied sizes. Two men were unloading the cargo piece by piece while a third was attempting to fashion some sort of wood splint to the rear axle. As Gymir walked closer, a long, thick crack was easily visible in the wooden pole under the back end of the wagon. The two cargo handlers noticed Gymir first.

“Boss, a giant is coming down the road.”

The man working on the axle grunted and stood, turning to face Gymir’s approach. He seemed a middle-aged man of stern disposition. His face was wreathed in black hair.

“Gooday, good sir,” he said.

“Gooday’” responded Gymir, stopping at a respectful distance.

“We had a bit of trouble, as you can see. Could I ask for the benefit of the great strength you giants are so famous for?”

It was a polite enough request.

“What do you need me to do?” said Gymir.

“Well, I’m just trying to brace this cracked axle here, but I can’t quite do it right with the weight of the wagon bearing down on it. When me boys here get the wagon empty, could you help them lift it while I cinch down me splints?”

Gymir set his rucksack to the side of the road. About half the cargo was already on the ground beside the wagon. It looked like crops and other food goods, so relatively light. Compared to say, a load of lumber or ore.

“I can do it now, just get your men off the wagon.”

The man was not so rude as to question the claim, so he waved his employees off the wagon and stood aside. Gymir walked up the rear of the wagon, secured a grip under the bed, and lifted it slightly to rest the weight on his hips. It was heavy. Much heavier than he had expected, actually. It would have been wiser to let the humans empty the wagon first. But he couldn’t back down now. His pride wouldn’t let him. Gymir gritted his teeth, adjusted his grip, and silently cursed at the wagoneer to be quick about his damn splints.

“What happened to the wagon?” he asked, just a hint of strain in his voice.

“Gargoyles,” grunted the wagoneer, pulling a strip of leather tight around the wood splint. “Smelled the smoked beef we had on the wagon, I bet. Came right out of the trees and grabbed it. And one of the horses, too.”

“Gargoyles?”

“Yeah, sort of like a bear and a bat mixed together.” He looked up to wink at Gymir. “Big, mean, fast, lots of teeth, can fly a bit. Not my favorite creatures. Not anyone’s favorite, I’m sure.”

Gymir glanced uneasily around. The attack came from the right side of the road, and the gargoyles had plainly dragged their prizes back into the brush. One didn’t need to be an expert tracker to see that trail. On the left side of the road, the surviving horse was grazing skittishly near some trees. And a large, bird-like creature, equipped with tack and saddle was standing nearby.

“What in gods is that thing?” said Gymir. It looked something like a giant chicken with a saddle, though more elegant.

“What? What? Are they coming back?” said the wagoneer, striking his head on the wagon in his speed at getting back up. He cursed.

“No, that thing with the saddle next to your horse.”

The human rubbed his skull and let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, that’s what passes for a horse for the elvish folk. A ranger from the border post came down the road and asked what happened. We told her about the gargoyle attack and she went up into the woods after them.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah, but most those rangers are alone unless they are at their guard post. They hunt those gargoyles all the time- want to keep them out of their own woods, so they kill them whenever they get the chance.”

Gymir grunted, his arms beginning to shake with fatigue. “How much longer? Your wagon is not light.”

“Oh! Right! Sorry. Just one more.” He went back to work.

A few more minutes of soft, frustrated grunting and the man said he was done. Gymir lowered the wagon thankfully, his biceps and lower back complaining.

“I appreciate the help, stranger,” said the wagoneer. “We should be able to make it to the guard post. Slowly. But we will make it. Can I offer you some of our cargo for your trouble? We’ll just say the gargoyles took it.”

Gymir considered the food-laden wagon. He could always use compact calories for a long journey.

“Got any cheese?”

The wagoneer gifted him with a small wheel of cheese, the finest of Calpheon, he claimed. Gymir placed it in his pack and considered the weird bird-horse again. “Which way did the ranger go?”

“Right after the gargoyles,” said the wagoneer, pointing to the obvious trail through the brush.

“Could you do me another favor? I’m heading to the guard post, too. The one that borders Kamasylvia?”

The wagoneer nodded.

“Could you take my rucksack along with you?”

“Of course.”

Gymir hefted his sack up onto the wagon and one of the laborers pushed it into a secure spot.  
“I’m going to go after the ranger.”

“They can take care of themselves you know.” said the wagoneer, “Deadly with a blade and deadly with a bow, just the same.”

Gymir didn’t have a response for that, so he strode off into the forest, the track plain to see for a child. He was curious of this elf, her ability, and should he make himself of use- she may be a social advantage in his future dealings with the people of Kamaslyvia. A valuable connection for gold and work.

* * *

The trees of this forest were a narrow and lanky variety, stubbornly growing amidst the cracks and tiny gaps in a rugged, rock dominated highlands; making what would be a steep, barren, stoney slope into a confusing forest that was more up and down than forward or backward. The changes of elevation were relatively easy to deal with, as Gymir’s height and long legs made easy work of the sort of natural stairwell this place seemed to be. The trail of the dragged horse and smoked beef was still easy to follow, despite the steepness. Or perhaps because of it.

Gymir hopped up to a boulder and snatched at a tree trunk growing up from a crevice between the boulder and the solid rock-face, slipped, caught himself, but his wayward foot sent a tumble of stones down the hill behind him.

“Cin baur na glenn. Im am faras,“ said a nearby tree.

Gymir spun towards the sound, his hands reaching for his axes at his waist. A lithe female human was perched on a branch above him, well shrouded in the tree’s leaves. No, not a human. An Kamaslyvian woman. Long, thin pointed ears protruded away from the sides of her head, somewhat concealed by golden hair tied to the back with a tight ponytail.

She wore plain green and brown clothing, though her pants were more long boots than pants, their tops secured tightly around the mid-thigh, then a gap of bare skin, and then skin-tight shorts. A strange design that must keep the hip joint completely free of any constraining fabric. It certainly allowed the elf to perch comfortably in the tree with her legs tight to her body. A bow was visible at her back, and a long knife hung at each hip.

“What?” said Gymir, “I don’t understand.”

She scowled at him.

“You noisy bastard,” She said, her voice thickly accented. She gave him some obviously negative hand gestures. “Stop... up going. Go back to road. Not safe...near-... here. Go south to guard post.”

“I’m not looking for safety. I’m looking for the gargoyles, too. And I was looking for you.”

The elf looked confused and dubious. “What you talking?”

“I met the wagoneers on the road. They told me what happened so I came up here to help.”

“No. No help. You are slow and loud. The ushanti will hear and kill us.”

Ushanti? The elf word for gargoyle? Probably. And she was worried about noise, so she must want to sneak up on the creatures and shoot them with her bow. He could help with that.

“Actually, they will just hear me, won’t they?” said Gymir, “And if the gargoyles come to me, that will make them pretty easy for you to find, eh?”

The elf glowered at him in silence.

Did she understand? It was hard to tell from her facial expression, assuming Kamasylvians even had the same facial expressions as Calpheionions. Gymir shrugged and climbed up atop the next rock, his feet scraping a gravely surface. He glanced again at the tree, but the elf was gone. He’d not heard or seen her departure, and he’d only looked away for a few seconds. Gymir was impressed

Though without a firm commitment from the ranger- or even firm confirmation she knew enough of the human language to understand what he was saying... he didn’t know if she was actually going to aid him against the gargoyles. That was somewhat alarming, as this was certainly not his fight and he was not, as of yet, sure he was going to get any benefit, financial or otherwise, out of this life-risking endeavor. Still, he’d made the offer, and if the ranger was following him silently, then him backing out would destroy any hope of a professional connection with her- and with her entire population when she brought the news back to her comrades. Hey, everyone, I met stupid, coward giant today. Let me tell you...

No, he was in this too deep now, so he continued to follow the trail of dragged meat. A hundred meters more, and he found some fresh blood and a wide area of disturbed bushes and shrubs. Blood was splattered over tree trunks and leaves, and tufts of horse hair were strewn about. The creatures probably started fighting over their prizes here. Multiple smaller drag trails spread out in multiple directions. Gymir selected the largest trail, figuring the largest portion probably went to the largest beast. Best to eliminate that one first.

He tried to be quiet, but beyond trying to step carefully, he didn’t really know how one moved quietly in the woods. There were just sticks and leaves everywhere. He could not put one of his feet down on anything else. So he snapped, rustled, and shuffled along the trail as softly as he could. If the elf was out there watching, she was likely disgusted.

He almost stepped on the horse leg before he spotted it. It was muddy, covered in leaves, and the meat looked shredded. But the thing which was doing the shredding was nowhere to be seen. Gymir turned slowly, peering down through the trees below him, and up through the trees further up the mountain, but there was nothing. Just a silent, ominous stillness. Surely the creature had not so easily abandoned its meal.

Then there was a sound- a soft wooden scratch. Gymir’s mind suddenly reminded him that the wagoneer said gargoyles were half-bat. And bats could fly. He looked up just as a massive grey thing slammed into his head, driving him to the ground under a flailing, snarling, beast. Sharp talons ripped through his clothing and scraped on the armor underneath.

Gymir cursed himself for a fool, he hadn’t even taken out his weapons! His axes were still at his hips. But giants possessed strength enough to be a weapon, so he shoved the beast with all of it, sending the creature howling into a nearby tree. Gymir scrambled to his feet and drew his battle axes.

The gargoyle was indeed about the size of a small bear, with a snub snout, red eyes, and a leathery bulk. It bulged with muscle and the talons of its long-fingered feet tapped impatiently, eager to attack. The creature stood on four legs about as high as an average human’s chest- which made it about waist high to Gymir. In fact, the creature seemed to be re-evaluating Gymir’s size as well, hanging back in hesitation.

Gymir sensed fear, so he stepped forward on the attack, but just as he moved forward, a fanged maw seized upon the back of his neck, taloned limbs slashed savagely down his spine, trying to rip through the heavy chainmail which protected Gymir’s back. Gymir cursed himself again. Distracted and ambushed from behind! Twice a fool!

Gymir cursed, feeling fury at himself, at the beast on his back, at this moronic plan of his! Run into the woods, fight dangerous beasts, make the elves like him! Totally worth risking his life!

He dropped both axes, reached up behind his neck, seized the second beast wherever he could. Getting a secure grip, Gymir then twisted into a full-strength suplex throw. The creature squealed in surprise as the centrifugal force tore it loose from Gymir’s back, but the alarm was truncated by the loud snap of the gargoyle’s neck, its body twisting in the air. Gymir slammed the limp creature into the ground in front of him, silent and lifeless.

He snatched up his fallen axes and searched for the first gargoyle, surely about to attack. But it was on the ground, dead, with an arrow through its skull.

“Left!” called a female voice.

Gymir spun left, but saw only trees. He was then hit from the right by a screeching gargoyle. He snapped out his right elbow which pushed the creature away, then brought his left arm swinging around to chop his battleaxe into the creature’s left shoulder. The metal blade sliced though and embedded deep into breastbone. The gargoyle collapsed, wheezing on the ground. Gymir wrenched his weapon free in a spray of gore.

“Wrong word!” yelled the ranger woman. “Right. No left! Next time I say rightly!”

“Help with your arrows, not your mouth!”

An arrow whistled through the air, a dark streak before Gymir’s eyes. He whirled to follow its path and saw it strike another charging gargoyle in the eye. The creature grunted, fell, and skidded to a stop in the dirt at Gymir’s feet.

What a shot!  
“Better!” Gymir shouted. He still didn't know where the ranger was, but it didn’t matter- her arrows were finding their marks.

Two more gargoyles came snarling out of the nearby brush, with the promise of more behind them. The two new beasts had only eyes for Gymir, they barreled down upon him. It was plenty of advance notice. He readied his axes. One gargoyle leaped for his throat, filling the air with its batty, winged bulk. Gymir chopped it from the air with a quick blow, bursting the beast’s torso with red ruin. The ferocity of the Gymir’s blow knocked the creature’s trajectory to Gymir’s left side. Just behind it, the second gargoyle was skittering forward towards Gymir’s legs. He whipped an axe back down to meet the gargoyle’s skull. Thunk! It dropped to the ground, twitching, it’s legs jerking when Gymir ripped his axe back out.

Twip!

Gymir spun to the sound of a twanging bowstring. The elf was in the clearing with him, firing at hesitant gargoyles near the edge of the trees. To her rear, a massive gargoyle emerged from the forest, twice as large as the others. Certainly, more bear than bat. Its wings were forgotten flaps of excess skin between thick limbs which chewed up the ground as it sprinted towards the elf woman. She was an able archer, obviously, but her small, human-sized body would not be able to resist the sheer kinetic force the gargoyle could employ at close range.

“Behind!” yelled Gymir, springing forward as he did so.

Twip!

She finished her shot on some other smaller target, and spun at his warning, but the gargoyle was barreling down upon her. She drew another arrow. Aimed. Meanwhile, Gymir’s long legs were covering the distance in a thudding, piston-like sprint. The elf fired.

Twip!

The arrow hit the charging beast in the shoulder and didn’t seem to notice it. The woman crouched, perhaps preparing some sort of leap away or attack. But Gymir arrived, lowered his shoulder in a charging tackle, and drove himself into the burly gargoyle’s neck.

The gargoyle’s head hit the ground with Gymir’s weight upon it, a loud snapping noise, then the following momentum of the beast’s body slammed into Gymir, turning his world into spinning chaos of sky, tree, and leathery skin. Giant and beast tumbled, axes lost somewhere along the way.

They skidded to a stop. Gymir immediately rolled away from the gargoyle, not wanting to be ground-grappling with the burly creature. He rolled to his feet, found the creature still limp on the ground, breathing heavily. An advantage to exploit! Without his weapons, Gymir’s mind quickly devised a new attack strategy. He jumped, and then stomped down upon the gargoyle’s head, Gymir’s sturdy boots meeting only brief resistance as they slammed to the ground with a wet pop. The gargoyle went still.

The enemy dispatched, Gymir spun, arms up and at the ready for new attackers. But the clearing was quiet. The Kamaslyvian woman was staring at him, bow at her side. She had an expression on her face that Gymir was unable to interpret. Thoughtful, perhaps?

“All dead,” she said.

Gymir glanced around, adrenaline beginning to fade, breathing heavily. There were several other dead gargoyles nearby, all with arrows protruding. The elf leaned over one of these, extracting an arrow and examining it for damage. It seemed to pass muster and she returned it to her quiver. She turned back to him, gave him an up-and-down appraising look, and then walked forward to look up into Gymir’s face. The top of her head was about even with the top of his stomach.

“You do well. Not bad.”

Gymir looked down upon her in surprise. Humans always backed away from him, preferring enough distance to prevent Gymir from towering over them. But this elven woman gazed right up at him, granting Gymir his first close look at her face.

Two sapphire eyes sparkled out of a sun-tanned face. Her slightly sharp nose flared slightly as she inhaled a breath, a slight grin turned into a slight grimace.

Oh. I stink.

Gymir took a step back from her, realizing he’d been on the road a long time.

“Uh...” said Gymir as he broke eye contact under the pretense of finding his axes. “Thanks.”

He spotted his weapons on the ground nearby and felt her eyes upon him as he walked to them and returned them to his belt hooks.

“You coming Kamasylvia?” she asked, “You hear call my queen?”

“Yes, I heard there was work to be had. Coin to be made.”

“Yes. Lots. Like this work.” She gestured to the dead gargoyles. “I get arrows, then we go to guard post. I take you.”

Gymir watched her walk to the first beast and bend over to see if the arrow in its skull would come out. Her long legs flowed into a firm buttox, tight from a strenuous lifestyle. The thin strips of exposed skin above her long boots promised lithe, smooth limbs under the leather. She tugged at the arrow a few times, the tips of her long ears bouncing. She abandoned the effort and stood, glancing suddenly at him over her shoulder. Gymir quickly averted his gaze and crouched to look at one of the gargoyles he’d axed.

It was definitely an ugly creature, but ugly creatures had certain charms to them, too. He took out one of his axes and chopped at the dead gargoyle’s limbs.

“What doing?” she said.

He rose and showed her a handful of bloody, but intact, gargoyle talons. “City folk love this kind of shit,” he said, “I can probably get a few hundred silver for each of these.”

She gave him an appraising look, pursed her small lips. “Get your trophies. Then we go.”

* * *

When they returned to the road, the wagon was gone- fresh tracks leading off towards the nearby guard post. The elf’s bird-like mount was still waiting patiently. The ranger whistled softly. The beast ruffled its feathers before trotting over to her: a loyal creature.

“Where horse?” she asked Gymir.

“None. I walked.”

She frowned at him. “So I walk.”

“I’ll be fine. Long legs,” Gymir patted himself on the thigh. “Ride your bird.”

The ranger’s cheeks reddened slightly. “No, I walk.. So go! Walk!”

Unsure how he upset the woman, Gymir started walking. The elf had to walk quickly to keep up with his much longer strides. The bird-horse plodded along behind, and they continued in silence. After a few hundred yards, Gymir started to feel decidedly awkward with the silence.

It was some long months since Gymir had interacted significantly with a woman of any race. The army camp was mostly male. Behr town was mostly male. His body was sexually frustrated, and his mind struggled to rein it in: his eyes would instinctively travel to the side of the ranger’s face, her neck, the profile of her chest, and the bare strips of thighs her armor revealed; then his conscious mind would regain focus and rip his eyes away again. He needed something to talk about to put his primal subsconscious back to sleep. But he could not think of a subject:

He glanced over at the ranger again, but this time found her to be already looking at him.

“No horse?” she said, upon eye contact, “Why?”

“I need a big one. I can’t afford to feed a big one. Or a small one..”

“Afford?” she said to herself. “Oh, you money… no?”

“Right, exactly. No money.”

“What do before walk here?”

“I was in the army.”

“Officer?”

Indignation welled up in Gymir’s gut. “No, a soldier.” He said curtly.

She frowned. “Sorry, I offend.”

“Why would I be offended about being a soldier?!” snarled Gymir.

The ranger blinked at him and then frowned deeper. She turned her head forward and focused on the road instead. They walked quietly for a time. Gymir’s lightning anger subsided. He realized he’d instinctively reacted, as if he were talking to some Calpheon woman who would look down upon him for being a soldier. Gymir felt he was not handling this well. She was a curious foreigner with poor language skills and she’d blundered into the sensitivities of caste-obsessed Calpheon society. It was not fair for him to get angry about it.

“Sorry. In Calpheon, those questions can be used by a person of high rank to insult a person of low rank.”

She turned back to him, the frown gone and interest back. “Sorry, I not understand.”

Gymir wasn’t sure if she meant she didn’t understand the social concept or if she just didn’t understand the sentence in a general language-comprehension sense. Either way, it was not a rabbit hole he wanted to go down. Maybe start with something more basic?

“My name is Gymir.”

“Jeemer?”

“Yeh-meer.”

“Yeh-meyer?”

“Yes.” It was close enough.

“I am Yendenel.”

“Yen-den-ell”

“Yes.”

“You are in the military of your people?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Mm.. three hundreds years.”

300 years? Gymir looked again at her smooth skin, angular features, and her fit, athletic form. She looked like a human woman in the prime of her youth. What was the lifespan of her people?

“That’s a long time. Do you enjoy it?”

Yendenel gave him a confused look. “Enjoy?”

“Do you like it?”

“Like it?” Yendenel seemed to say to herself. “Yes, I- like it.” Her voice had an unsure sort of sound to it, so Gymir thought it best to change the subject again, but to what? Thankfully, he didn’t have time to come up with a new topic of conversation.

“There. Lemoria Guard Post,” said Yendenel as they rounded a bend.

Where two steep, rocky hills met on either side of the road, a relatively mundane barrier made of hewn tree trunks stretched from rock wall to rock wall. The tops of the vertical logs were roughly hewn into spikes in primitive but effective fashion. The guard towers were far more exotic: ornate brown-gold towers of some material that seemed both artificial and natural. Kamaslyvian military were here in force. Elves dressed in Yendenel’s outfit and equipment were arrayed along the gate, keeping watch in the towers, and patrolling along the road; checking cargo and documents of a small queue of trade wagons and other travelers. The rearmost wagon Gymir recognized as the one carrying his rucksack.

They neared the gate in silence. The wagoneer recognized Gymir at a distance and raised a hand in greeting. Gymir raised his hand in response. It was time to part ways with her. To continue on with Yendenel would be presumptuous. Gymir wanted a reward or some sort of social advantage for his aid, but in Calpheon, him asking for things tended to be taken as a threat or ultimatum due to his towering size. He usually received better results by a more passive approach to reward.

“That man has my travel bag,” said Gymir. “It was good to meet you, Yendenel.”

She stopped, glanced at the wagoneer, the line of travelers, and then back up at Gymir. She gazed at him a moment, chewed her lip.

“Get belongings. I take in. You ally, not traveler. No wait.”

Gymir saw no reason to object to that. Yandenel waited a polite distance from the parked wagon, exchanging a bored wave with the wagoneer as Gymir grabbed his rucksack from the back of the wagon. The two employees were staring wide-eyed at Yandenel, one with mouth ajar.

“Stop staring, you fools! She’d skin you as soon as touch you!” hissed the wagoneer. To Gymir he said: “Did you find the gargoyles?”

“Yes, the ranger and I handled them- though she killed more than I did. Oh. Here.” Gymir deposited three gargoyle talons into the waggoner's wrinkled palm. “For the transport of my goods.”

“But that was just payment in kind for your help with the repairs!” He offered the talons back.

“A gift then. You can sell them in the City for some extra coin.”

“Gods, no! These are keepsakes! And I can tell my wife’s brother I killed the gargoyle myself and use these as proof. That will stuff that high-horsed bastard good and proper.”

Gymir gave one talon each to the waggoner's men and then gave a farewell before returning to Yendenel’s side. They walked along the line of carts and travelers, all of them staring at the odd pair: the disheveled ranger and the muddy, bloody giant. Even the other rangers, all of them also women of beauty and prime physical form, were watching them pass.

Yendenel maintained an aloof composure and continued on her way toward the gate, pretending the staring was not occuring. Gymir met as many stares as he could, grimacing enough to make most of the human travelers avert their gaze. The few obvious warriors met his eyes with even looks. The elves, too, they met and matched his stare and did not look away. They were all rangers, so no strangers to combat… and perhaps no strangers to large humanoids, either.

“Inside Kamaslyvia-,” Gymir said in a low voice, “Are there many big creatures?”

“Yes,” said Yendenel, “We small size compared to many.”

These soldiers of Kamaslyvia were like human soldiers then, accustomed to battle with larger races. The elvish guards who moved forward to block their final approach to the gate shared another trait with humans: the dull, expressionless faces of soldiers at their wits’ end with routine guard duty.

“You need to wait for inspection,” said one of the rangers in a bored voice. Her speech lacked any sort of accent. This one was more accustomed to contact with people who spoke the human language. Her cold eyes evaluated Gymir with a lack of enthusiasm.

Yendenel spoke to the guard in the elvish language. The guard frowned, but her eyes came to life a bit and she listened to Yendenel, then she appraised Gymir up and down. She then said something to Yendenel and a few of the other guards nearby laughed. Yendenel’s jaw tightened, then she responded with a sharp-sounding statement. All the guards laughed again, even the exceptionally bored guard managed a smile. But whatever Yendenel said, worked. The lead guard stood aside and waved them on.

Yendenel cocked her head to Gymir indicating that he should follow, and he did so. They walked through the gate and into an orderly military post. Large tents of excellent quality were arrayed along the road. Rangers were everywhere. Anywhere one could look, a group of elven women were gathered in conversation or in their daily duties. A few clusters of other races were here, as well: Some human traders were reorganizing their wagons after inspection; Some shai were here, a child-sized race of farmers and magic users from far to the northeast; And several large, bestial people with blue fur and regal wolf heads. Gymir had never seen such a creature before, but they were almost his own size and looked about as muscular.

“What manner of people are they?”

Yendenel glanced in the direction of his gaze. One of the blue-furred men was hammering on something over an anvil. “Fadu. They come from west. Some allies. Some not. Only allies allowed here.”

“And who is this, Ranger Yendenel?” another female voice said in the human tongue.

Gymir and Yendenel turned to find another elf woman had come up beside them both. This woman wore an elegant dress that seemed out of place in this military camp. She was lighter of skin than Yendenel, noble-woman’s skin was Gymir’s guess, and she had a look of calm serenity on her face, despite the curiosity evident in her voice.

Yendenel turned and bowed to her, Gymir followed suit. The elf in the dress smiled in acknowledgement then asked Yendenel something in elvish. Yendenel responded with a hand gesture towards Gymir.

“Yeh-meyer,” said Yendenel. And then several sentences of the elven language followed. The noble elf nodded, then smiled serenely at Gymir.

“Ah, you are one of the requested adventurers, come to serve our great queen. I am Eldoneth. I’m a priestess of our people.” She paused long enough to bow formally to Gymir. “I was tasked to help those of you who come. I am to gift you with the comprehension of our language. Will you accept it?”

That would be incredibly useful.

“Yes, of course,” said Gymir, “How is it done?”

“Oh, it’s a very simple spell. Just let me-” she reached up for his face, but her arm only reached the top of his chest.

“Um… Could you?...” asked the priestess.

“Oh,” said Gymir and he bent his knees to lower himself down. The elf placed a hand on his forehead, which suddenly became very, very hot.

Then his face was in the dirt, and he wasn’t sure when or how that happened. His head was pounding like the morning after a long drunk. Gymir groaned and tried to lift his head, sending a rolling thunder of pain through his mind. He groaned again. Raised, high-pitched voices were arguing above him, creating a cacophony of agony that slowly came into focus.

“What do you mean you’d never done the spell before?” Yendenel was saying, her voice high-pitched and angry.

“Well- I practiced it, of course! But this was the first live attempt!” Elboreth’s voice sounded offended.

“So you just decided to melt the brain of the first warrior to answer the Queen’s call?!”

“Yendenel, you are being dramatic! I’m not an amateur! The spell went perfectly! His mind just put up a fight to it, that's all.”

“That’s all? Look at him! He’s like a downed tree.”

“He will be fine. It might just take a few hours for him to recover.”

“I’m fine. I’m okay,” mumbled Gymir as he struggled to his hands and knees. He needed to get up. He felt like he was showing weakness. But the effort to stand gave him the spins, so severe nausea began to compete with his headache for the most miserable experience of the moment.

“Sir Gymeyer,” said Eldoneth, “The effect will wear off in a few hours. I do apologize for not warning you.”

Yendenel squatted down next to Gymir’s head. “Are you sure you’re okay, Gymeyer?”

Gymer raised his head to try and look at her, discovered he was staring directly at her groin, then painfully raised his head to stare blearily into her shining, blue eyes. He forgot her question.

“It’s Yeh-meer, actually.”

She frowned. “You look like shit, Gymir.”

Gymir didn’t know how he looked, but he sure felt like shit, and the tone of voice Yendenel used was funny. He began chuckling, then forced himself to stop when the motion ratcheted the pain of his headache up another notch.

“When did you learn to speak human so well?”

“I’m not speaking human. You’re speaking elvish.”

“Just as promised!” said Eldoneth. “Welcome to Kamaslyvia, Gymeyer.” She bowed and quickly walked away.

Yedenel glanced at the departing priestess, then turned back to Gymir and rolled her eyes.

“Sorry. The priests can be a bit airheaded, but they usually do good work. Can you stand? I can try and help you up, but I’m not sure how much use I will be. You’re… you’re really big. I could get a fadu to-”

“No. No, I’m fine,” Gymir was getting used to the pain. He climbed slowly to his feet, the pounding in his head getting stronger as he gained elevation. He stood up fully, felt his balance go, staggered a bit. Yendenel’s hands pressed against his chest to keep him up. He steadied.

“I think a trip to the bath pools will make you feel better, Gymir. There are cool waterfalls to put your head under,” said Yendenel.

That did sound like it would be nice. “All right.”

“It’s a small walk. Can you manage that?”

Gymir took a few steps, each footfall sending a percussion of pain through his mind. “Easily,” he told her.

She led him through the camp and onto a smaller pathway leading out of the tents and up into the hilly woods. Elf women heading back into camp passed them periodically, all with damp hair and brief surprised looks when they saw Gymir lumbering up the path towards them. Gymir tried to keep tight control on his eyes. The elf women had damp hair and were in varied stages of undress; some in robes, some in a simple linen wrap, some were redressed in field gear or camp clothing. All of them were beautiful by any standard. Perhaps not to a tribal giant who was raised amongst giant women, but Gymir was raised amongst humans, so the standards of beauty for both his own race and for humans was ingrained in him.

If this was a public bath, he was going to have a hard time. He already found his eyes wandering over Yendenel’s body. What if the bath was full of elves like her? Naked? Part of him was excited by the prospect, but he was looking to start a mercenary career in this country, and he couldn’t start it by ogling all the Queen’s soldiers and getting an erection in a public bath. Gymir began to wonder if this was a good idea.

The short walk was more like a short hike.

Yendenel walked beside him, having an easier time on the hill than Gymir, but in no rush. She said: “I realize- people from Calpheon might bathe differently than we do.”

“Bathe differently?” Gymir’s mind hiccuped and went blank. There were different ways to bathe? “There is a wrong way to do it?”

“Yes,” she said, a matter-of-fact tone on her voice. “Tell me: how do you take a bath in Calpheon?”

“Well, most times I might jump in the river and swim around a bit. If I have money, I might go to an inn and get a bath there.”

“A bath at an inn. What is that like?”

“They fill a tub with hot water and you get in it. Rub soap on yourself. And then rinse the soap off.”

“They don’t _change_ the water?”

“Change the water? No. Why would they do that?”

“So people wash themselves, and then rinse themselves, in the same water?”

“Yes.”

Yendenel’s eyes closed and she shook her head, the tips of her long ears waving in the air.

“I’m glad I asked. Bathing here is much different, and the bathing here at Lemoria is similar to some of the best baths our capital has to offer. Let me explain: First; everyone bathes in an individual booth.”

Thank the gods for that, thought Gymir.

“There will be a bin you can place your clothing in. You put your clothing in the bin and provide 10 silver coins. Your clothing will be cleaned for you while you bathe and then transported to the bath exit and wait for you there. If you don’t pay, they’ll just move your clothing for you. More frugal people use the first room to wash their own clothing, instead. It’s your choice.”

‘Then you’ll go into the first bathing chamber. A portion of the waterfall will be accessible and you can rinse yourself under the water. It’s water no one else has touched, so it will be fresh and clear and wonderful.” Yendenel’s eyes sparkled as she described it. “There is also soap there. Fresh, just for you, and a soft stone to clean yourself with. Soap up and then rinse it all off again.’

‘Then, you move down to the heated tub, where fresh water is heated by firestones. And you just sit and soak in the hot water and gaze into the valley for as long as you wish.”

This is a lot of effort for a bath. “So ten silvers for washing clothes,” said Gymir, “but how much do we pay to get in?”

“Pay to get in?,” Yendenal gave Gymir a confused look. “You don’t need to pay. The bath is maintained by the Royal Stewards Association. So, the Queen, basically.”

“The Queen provides you with free baths?”

Yendenel laughed, a musical sound that sent her ear-tips bouncing.. “What sort of Queen would expect her soldiers to go without baths!? You were in the military. You were provided baths, weren’t you?”

Gymir’s nose could almost smell the familiar scent of a large camp of men, none of them bathed in months, except when they were rained upon. Creating a sort of wet dog smell. His head began pounding more urgently.

“No. Everyone just gets used to the smell.”

Yendenel appeared scandalized. “I’ve heard from people who traveled to Calpheon that everyone stank, but I didn’t believe it. I thought they were just speaking from prejudice.”

Gymir rubbed his face, ready to be done with this conversation, but Yendenel was intent.

“So, it is true, then?” she asked.

“It’s accurate,” Gymir conceded.

“Water falls from the sky! What excuse do people have to be dirty?”

“Rain doesn’t help. It makes things worse. You have dogs here, don’t you?”

Yendenel blinked, thinking about the connection. Then her eyes sparkled and she laughed. It was a beautiful sound, Gymir decided.

“Fair point,” she said. She beamed a smile at him.

His pace slowed in shock at the sight. Before he could stop himself:

“You’re beautiful,” he said. Then instantly regretted that he said that.

Her smile turned into a blush, but she broke eye contact abd turned to continue up the hill.

“All adventurers say that. All foreigners stare at me, at all of us. And they say some vile things when they think we can’t hear them, but our hearing is quite better than theirs.”

Well now… she didn’t seem upset at his abrupt compliment. Gymir decided to push his luck. “Your smile ripped the truth from me, and that’s all you’ll hear from my mouth.”

Another laugh. “Ripped the truth from you?” She looked back at him with a thoughtful look. “People who have visited your lands have also said that giants are dull-witted, but you seem not.”

Gymir decided to let the unintended insult against his race pass, he knew she didn’t mean it.

Instead, he asked, “There are no dullards in Kamaslyvia? No stupid elves?”

She laughed again. “Oh, lots. I could tell you all about stupid elves. And I see your point.” Then, she lifted an arm and pointed, “We’re here.”

An orderly line of tall fencework marked their destination. The dull roar of a nearby waterfall added a mystical element to the place. They passed through the fence via an elf-sized door. Gymir crouched down through it. The roar of the waterfall was immediately more pronounced. A wooden walkway led around the side of the mountain. It was carved a little into the rockface, so the natural stone of the landscape acted as a ceiling for the path. The path was a bit low, so Gymir bent over to make his way along.

When they rounded the corner, Gymir beheld a marvel of elvish engineering. The waterfall was natural until the edge of his cliff face. Just below that, a collection of wooden chutes collected the falling water and divided it into a dozen separate streams. Each chute vanished over the walls of what were obviously the bathing stalls, presumably to then fall naturally upon the occupant, and then out through the floor, as one could see water emerging from beneath the stalls and continuing its drop to the river far below.

“Let’s go down to the far end. The last one has the best view. I want you to have that one if no one is inside.”

They passed several stalls, some had a small blue flag in a notch on the door. Gymir presumed that meant they were occupied. One of the wolf-headed men, a fadu in an apron, was walking the opposite direction, so Gymir and Yendenel stood aside for it to pass. The muscular creature was lugging a bin of clothing similar to Yendenel’s. The cleaning service, apparently.

The roar of the falling water was intense as they walked under the falls. There were no flags on the two doors on the far end.

“Perfect!” Yendenel shouted over the sound of the water. “I’ll take this one, you take the end one. There are no ceilings so just ask me any questions. You’ll have to shout though!”

She entered into her bath stall and Gymir entered into his, ducking to keep his head from striking the wooden sluice which was dumping water through the floor on the far side of a small, open-air chamber. Near the door was the clothing bin which Yendenel described to him. He considered washing his own clothing, but then Gymir remembered Yendenel’s flaring nose and her grimace, presumably at his smell.

He put ten silver in the bin and quickly stripped out of his muddy, bloody clothing. He received a good puff of his own odor as he stripped off his armor and grimaced. Ugh! That was probably why Yendenel suggested a bath so quickly.

Gymir dropped all his stuff into the cleaning bin, except the special hand axe and his coin purse. He set both near at hand, against a wall. An old habit.

Naked and a little chilled, Gymir crouch-walked over to where the water was falling from the overhead chute. It was cool, but not nearly as cold as he would have expected for a mountain stream. It was refreshing, not icy. Was this temperature the result of some sort of elvish design, too? Well, it was a question for another time. Gymir put his head under the flow and let the cool water thud into his head, and just like that, his headache washed away with the sweat and grime which coated his shaggy brown hair.

He moved his head from under the stream and attempted the usual motion of flipping his long hair to the back of his head, but this motion brought the back of his skull against the water chute with an audible thump. His teeth rattled and the headache came booming back.

Gymir hissed to himself, rubbing the back of his head furiously to banish the pain. He stumbled away from the schute and stood to full height, grimacing. He aggressively massaged the back of his skull, trying to rub away the pain. After most of the pain vanished, he reopened his eyes.

He was twice the height of the average elf, so the walls of the stalls only came up to his biceps. When he opened his eyes, he could see over the wall into Yedenel’s bathing room. She had her head back under the flowing water, letting it course through her long blond hair, droplets running along the sharp edges of her pointed ears. Her face was an expression of relaxation, smiling to herself, eyes closed- radiant neck, arched back. Water coursed between her breasts, pink nipples erect in the chill, and droplets sparkled on her thighs and in the golden tuft of hair at her groin.

Gymir stared in shock for a moment, then realized what he was doing and ducked quickly back down before she spotted him. Yendenel was stunningly beautiful. He was reeling from the impact of it, his penis was beginning to harden. Everything in Gymir was screaming for him to look again, but he resisted the temptation. It would be disrespectful. But he couldn’t stop his mind from bringing the image back to the inside of eyelids when he closed them. He couldn’t stop wondering and wanting to know what that smooth skin felt like against his own.

His manhood was responding, becoming even more engorged. If he didn’t stop thinking about Yendenel, he would have full, raging erection with no avenue of relief. He stuffed his head back under the cold water and thought about the lice in the army camp, how he could look down on top of everyone’s head because he was so much taller, and see the creatures crawling around in men’s hair. Ugh!

It worked. His penis calmed, leaving only a latent background urge for sexuality that he would just have to ignore for now. He found the soap and lathered up his body, his face, his hair. He returned to his dirty kit and pulled out his dagger. Washed and soaped it, then used the reflection in his axe to shave off his facial hair; and the memory of lice still with him, he grabbed big fistfuls of head hair and sawed it away with the dagger, letting it fall down the mountainside. He soaped his head again and rinsed, enjoying the feel of short hair. He didn’t have any lice, he was sure, but the memory gave him a shiver of heebie-jeebies and he washed a third time anyway.

Well, he was clean. Now what?

Gymir examined the walls of the room, and the wall opposite the cliff edge contained a door. He snatched up his axe and purse, then opened it. A short stairwell was before him, also wood. He descended, found that it rounded on itself and went further down. He followed it. The narrow walls were tight beside him. He stood up to full height to look over the walls, but Yendenel was not in her stairwell, presumably still washing under the cold water above. Each stall seemed to have an identical stairwell, so there was a series of them built against the cliff side, like an organized tangled knot. After a few more turns, the roar of the waterfall a bit less now, he entered another door and was met with a gust of moist heat.

The room contained a pool of water, oval shaped in the center of the room. It was clear, steaming, and fed by a slowly flowing tap. Gymir set his axe on the floor next to the edge and tested it with his foot. It was hot, but perfectly so. He stepped in, the heat flowing up his legs. He sat on the underwater bench, enjoying the tingly heat sensation running over his groin. Yet the ledge was too shallow, so he scooted off of it and sat on the floor of the main pool, the water coming up to his neck, sealing him in the blissful heat.

It. Was. Awesome. Hotter and deeper than any bath an inn could provide in human lands. And the knowledge that he was already clean, and this water was pure despite him being in it- well, that did add to the enjoyment in a subtle way. Maybe the elves have the right idea here.

Gymir leaned back against the underwater bench, lounging, submerged, enjoying the heat- headache long forgotten. Several clouds floated high above, turning orange in the setting sun. He idly watched them float past, mind clear. Until the memory of Yendenel’s naked body returned to him. Well, that was nice to think about, too. He could afford some minor excitement in the privacy of his own hot tub. He stared at the passing clouds and daydreamed about Yendenel next to him in the hot water, the feel of her thighs, her breasts pressed against his forearm, watching them bounce as he…-.

He heard a loud splash from Yendenel’s stall next door. She laughed, and shouted something. The waterfall roar was quieter here, but it still drowned out sound enough to muddy conversation over the wooden barrier.

“What?” Gymir shouted back.

She shouted louder. “I love jumping in the hot water. It tingles!”

“Too shallow for me to jump!”

Yendenel’s head popped over the wall. “What?” she said, a light smile on her face.

Gymir resisted an urge to cover himself. He returned her smile. “Too shallow for me to jump in.”

“Oh! Ha! You barely fit.” Her smile faded slightly as she gazed at him a moment, and then she looked thoughtful. Finally, she said, “It’s too noisy to talk over the wall. May I join you?”

Gymir blinked. Join him in his hot tub while he was naked. It was as if one of the brief fantasies of his mind had suddenly become a reality.

“I’d like that,” he said, as calmly as he could.

Yendenel smiled slyly, her eyes twinkled. “I didn’t think you would say no.”

She climbed onto the top of the wall, her breasts wobbling as her forearms lifted her body up. Then a foot on the top of the wall, pulling the rest of her body up and over, and briefly spreading open her thighs to Gymir’s view. Then she was over and landing on the wood floor near Gymir’s tub, breasts bouncing with the landing, water droplets streaming from her body. Gymir stared at her as she stepped toward the edge of the tub.

“Well, will you make me some room?”

Gymir quickly stood to give her room, unintentionally climbing from the water enough to reveal his rapidly hardening cock. Yendenel’s sapphire eyes went wide, she froze and she stared at his groin in shock. Gymir cursed himself for a fool. Why couldn’t he get a grip on himself?

Then her eyes flicked to his: “Are you going to be able to control yourself with me here?”

She wasn’t outraged? Well, now.... Something was indeed happening here.

Gymir took the cue from her tone and nonchalantly shrugged off his own engorged cock, as if it could not be helped. “Pay it no mind. You are beautiful and I’ve not been close to a naked woman in a long time, beautiful or otherwise. It will calm down in time.” He settled back down into the center of the tub. His erection was at least submerged.

Yendenel regarded him with an expression Gymir was unable to read. Was she changing her mind? Had his penis betrayed him, once again?

Then she bit her lips slightly and stepped into the hot water with a small grin. Gymir watched her long legs, taunt stomach, and ample breasts submerge into the water. Her body was mostly obscured as she sat at the underwater bench, and Gymir hoped that would help him maintain his cool.

Gymir thought Yendenel was playing some sort of game, here. Challenging him: Could he maintain control of his sexuality and continue to develop their relationship despite her naked proximity. And could she? He’d played this game before. The fact that they were playing it at all meant that something was sure to happen, so he was more than willing to be as patient as he needed to be.

“A long time, huh?” she asked, smirking. She stretched out into the tub, one of her calves coming into contact with his shin, and it remained there, a tantalizing smooth touch under the water. She acted like she didn’t notice the contact- just an innocent touch, he was to believe. He wanted more than anything to reach out with his hand and stroke that calf, but that would be a mistake.

Instead, Gymir tried to ignore her leg and press on with the conversation: “I was in the Calpheon Army. There are no women in the ranks.”

“None? What about their famous valkyrie? Stories of them are known here.”

“They keep to themselves in their own camps, and contact between us, except by officers, is forbidden.”

Yendenel sighed in sympathy. “It’s not so different here: there are very few men. But not because it's forbidden, but, most people don’t know this, male elf children are generally more rare. And most of those are soldiers and deployed to the south.”

“So Kamaslyvia is a land full of beautiful women, who by sheer numbers, probably lack a male suitor?” said Gymir, half jokingly, half amazed.

Yendenel laughed. “Yes, actually. Exactly.”

“Well, what do people do, then?”

“Well, some get lucky with an elf man when they are young, of course. Some women turn to each other to sate their… needs. And some turn to men with more... exotic origins.” Her leg rubbed against his under the water.

It was Gymir’s turn to pretend it wasn’t happening. Unfazed he asked: “Exotic origins? Outsiders?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes human traders, sometimes a local fadu... sometimes a giant…”

“Sometimes a giant?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, that’s very interesting, and judging by this excellent bath, the elvish people are skilled women of taste.”

She grinned at him, her leg rubbing against his again, and the other leg joining it- moving lightly under the water, her smooth skin a tantalizing sensation. Gymir moved that wonderful feeling to the back of his mind as she said: “I won’t argue with you there.”

Gymir continued, “So despite what you say, I can’t imagine any elf woman would be so inclined to snag up any passing male thing and have a tryst. I imagine there has to be some sort of attraction or bond that grows between them.”

The movement of Yendenel’s legs stopped. “Such as?”

“The defeat of a common enemy on the field of battle,” said Gymir. Yendenel’s motionless leg was too much. He needed the feel of her movement again. Something was happening here, it was plainly obvious. It was time to make a move.

Gymir reached out under the water to gently capture Yendenel’s smooth calf, his large palm covering most skin from ankle to knee. She didn’t flinch away from his touch, so Gymir cautiously pulled Yendenel’s leg toward him. An intense expression of excitement appeared on her face, Yendenel let herself be pulled. She floated through the water towards Gymir. He captured her other leg and brought her into his lap. He felt a slightly fuzzy warmth press his shaft flat against his lower stomach. Yendenel took a sharp intake of breath, smiled, shivering slightly against him, her eyes afire with blue heat.

He’d had other words planned, some other witty continuation of his point, but they were forgotten in the heat of Yendenel’s obvious response. She pressed against Gymir’s chest as their lips met. Gymir was absorbed by the warmth of her lips, her soft breasts pressing against his skin, his massive erection pressed against his own body by something wondrous and warmer than the water.

It was fantasy. Some dream he’d conjure up for himself on a drunken, damp night in Behr. But here he was, living it. Every inch of his body and mind silently yelling in delight and excitement.  
Gymir clutched at Yendenel’s thigh and her lower back, pulling her against him, increasing the force of her against the underside of his shaft. He wanted more of this, more of her.

Yendenel’s breath hissed into his neck, she twitched her hips, and Gymir felt the velvet of her opening slide up and down his bulging length. Gymir was almost overcome with the need to take her right then, but he pressed it aside- this was too good to rush. His hands explored her body; her back, her shoulders, the back of her head, and back down her spine to her buttox and thighs. It was pure joy to just feel her skin. Their kissing and slow grinding became harder and more intense.

Yendenel bit her lip and moved her hips away from him, her motions suddenly urgent. Gymir felt his erection stand upright, freed from the weight of her body, then slight discomfort as Yendenel’s pelvis pushed it down at the tip. Once. Twice. Yendenel let out a frustrated sigh, snaked an arm between her legs. Gymir twitched slightly as he felt her hand close around his shaft, her hands tough and firm, warrior’s hands. Holding him still, she maneuvered herself over his tip, eyes closed, concentrating on their impending connection. She pushed down, her cleft spreading slightly, her mouth opening slightly, her hand leaving his shaft and switching to Gymir’s taunt stomach under her.

Paradise enveloped the tip of Gymir, he let out a sigh. This was everything he’d wanted, in this moment, and it was all he could do to not rush it. She moved slowly down an inch, enveloping more of Gymir, then back up, then down again, but further than before. Yendenel gasped and her head dropped into Gymir’s chest while her hips continued to move, repeating the process, this time further down another inch more. Bit by bit, Gymir was being consumed, enveloped, but the desire in him was only growing. Gymir desperately wanted to grab her hips and thrust upwards into her, to feel her velvet all the way to his hilt. But no, no, she was so small compared to him, almost half his size, he could hurt her, the last thing he wanted to do.

He slid his hands from her hips down to her knees and clutched their smooth hardness as she went up and down again, another inch closer to the goal, her liquid velvet over-half consuming him now. A small musical sound escaped her lips, her forehead pressed harder into the center of his chrest. He watched her hips go up and down again, almost all the way down now, her fingers twitching slightly as he filled her up. Up and down a last time, her pelvis finally meeting his, him fully enveloped in her heat. She held her body down, Yendenel’s long ears twitched a few times, their tips bouncing in the warm air.

With a moan, Yendenel pushed herself up from Gymir’s broad chest, her brow knitted in slight concern, her eyes a bit dazed, mouth half agape. Just the motion of her straightening up moved the part of her wrapped around Gymir’s shaft, drawing out from him an inadvertent sigh of pleasure. Already he could feel a deep, vibrating pressure behind his groin, a sure indication that the cliff of climax was not far away. Gymir didn’t want this to be over, but he couldn’t fully resist the desire to get closer to that cliff, to feel more of this. He moved his hips, pushing upward into Yendenel. The head of his shaft was rewarded with a tightening sensation.

Yendenel made a musical noise and lost her balance slight, her hands set down on Gymir’s chest to hold herself upright. He liked that sound, and he was immediately addicted to the feeling of moving inside her. He pressed upward with his hips again. This time Yendenel gasped, the knitting of her brow growing more intense. Both hands clutched at Gymir’s chest, her nails digging into his skin slightly.

“Wait. Gymir,” she gasped.

Gymir froze. Had he misinterpreted her expression? “Do you hurt?”

Her sapphire eyes gazed into him, some of the knit in her brow relieved. “No. Not exactly. It’s just… It’s… I’m filled up. The pressure..” She moved against him of her own accord, sending a wave of pleasure through Gymir’s body. She whimpered slightly. “I’ve not felt this before. Can you…? ...Just hold still for a bit?”

“Yes,” said Gymir, willing to agree to anything just so long as he could stay within her.

Gymir kept his lap frozen, but ran his hands up her thighs, caressed her hips. After a short time, Yendenel rocked herself against him, the slight movements oscillating their connection. She moaned softly, then she started to move a little faster with wider motions, moving more of him inside her. With each half thrust, her insides caressed every side of his shaft- he could already feel the deep and growing pressure of an approaching orgasim. He tried to ignore it as best he could for long, heavenly moments. Yendenel seemed to be growing in comfort, she bounced herself shallowly, eyes closed, seemingly entranced with the feel of him inside her.

But the increased intensity was building Gymir’s impending climax to a dangerous level. He snatched desperately at her buttox and held her firm against him, the act slapping their pelvises together, pushing him even deeper inside in a motion that nearly drove him over the edge.

Breath hissed through Yendenel’s lips, her legs vibrated slightly. She opened her eyes and gave him a questioning look.

“Don’t move, don’t move,” he gasped.

She sighed in sexual frustration, her hips trying to fight against his firm grip. But while tantalizing, it wasn’t enough to send him over the cliff. Gymir felt the pressure subside for the moment.

“Yendenel. It’s been a while, I can’t control it. Anymore and I’ll burst. Give me a moment like this.”

Her concern transformed into an impish look. “Why control it? Do you think we are only going to do this once tonight?”

She then began aggressively rocking against him, not as fast as before, but it was enough to bring that orgasmic pressure rising again from the depths of his body. Gymir half-wanted to ride the rising geyser to completion, but that would end this, and he wasn’t ready for that. He pulled her tight against him again, gentler this time, so as not to push himself over the edge. She was dangerous! She would have him burst, just so long as she could keep moving a few seconds more!

He held her lower back, keeping her solidly impaled upon himawlf. Yendenel moaned in frustration, then chirped in surprise as Gymir leaned forward and rose from the tub. Her hands shot out to grip around his triceps, her luscious legs trying to find purchase on his ribs. But her weight was easy for Gymir to hold with one hand under the small of her back, and the other between her shoulder blades, suspending her above the steaming water which came up to his thighs.

“What?” said Yendenel, her expression holding both surprise and excitement.

In answer, Gymir withdrew his hips away from her, drawing out a length of his cock. Yendenel’s eyebrows rose and her mouth opened, a sort of sad gasp escaped her small mouth. He stopped, just leaving the head inside, and held her there, suspended in his arms. After a few seconds of stillness, Gymir felt her ankles tighten against his ribs, felt her arms pull at his triceps, her hips moved, succeeding in a slight motion against the head of Gymir’s shaft, but she did move any closer to him. She was suspended in his hands like a hammock.

Yendenel made a frustrated sound as she found herself unable to pull herself closer to him, his massive arms more than a match for her smaller body. Yendenel bit her lip and her sapphire eyes told Gymir what she wanted.

He pulled her inwards, slowly filling her up, savoring the feeling of sinking back into warm paradise, now more intense in the cooler medium of air rather than hot water. Yendenel’s eyes closed, her eyebrows went up, her mouth opened halfway, her elven ears twitched.

“Oh!” she said.

“Does it hurt?”

“Gods, no. Don’t stop.”

Gymir pulled her away from him again, stopping again near his tip. Yendenel’s face was entrancingly expressive, even her ears moving with what she was feeling. He wanted to see more of it. Seizing a new idea, he only pulled Yendenel a little way towards himself, sinking in just an inch before stopping, then pulled back out to start position, then back in an inch, and back out. As he continued this pattern, Yendenel’s eyes closed and she chewed her lower lip softly, making small musical sounds. Then, Gymir pulled her all the way inward again, a bit faster and harder than he intended.

Yendenel yelped, eyes opening wide, her legs kicked out slightly, her nails dug painfully into Gymir’s triceps.

Fear shot through Gymir. He’d hurt her! He started to pull himself out. “I’m sorry! I-”

Yendenel’s legs closed on his ribs again, fighting against his retreat.

“No!” gasped Yendenel, “It didn’t hurt. It just surprised me. Do- do it more..”

Relieved and excited, Gymir did as she asked, though cautiously. pulling out quickly, and pulling her in quickly- a little too eagerly, as her pelvis slapped audibly against his own. She made a loud, musical sound:

“!”

It seemed a good sound. Yendenel had her eyes closed, her mouth was tight, but she was nodding enthusiastically. Gymir pushed her away and pulled her in again. The soft warmth of her traveling the length of his cock was mesmerizing, but with this pace, he could control the buzzing climax deep in his navel, a delicate balance on the cliff. He continued at a steady rate, Yendenel’s thighs bouncing with each impact with his waist.

“!”

“!”

“!”

The point of their connection became notably wetter, making loud moist sounds with each slapping contact. Each impact jiggled the flesh of her thighs, bounced her breasts, bobbled her delicate neck, sent her damp hair swaying, the tips of her ears bobbing. The glory of her body, the expression of continual enthrallment on her face, the focus of her sapphire eyes on his and her bouncing, twitching exoitic ears- it finally eroded the last of Gymir’s self- control.

He increased the pace, increased the force, impaling her body upon himself with invigorated urgency. Yendenel’s eyes went wide, her back arched against his supporting palms, and her hands scrambled along his arms, seeking some adequate anchor, settling on his elbows. Her sapphire eyes stared into him, her lips open in a silent “Oh!”, her eyes wide in surprise.

Gymir tightened his groin muscles against the rising tide of his coming orgasim. She tightened along his shaft as he moved her body inward and out, using his hips in tandem for long, fast thrusts. New juices were flowing from within her in response to the suddenly excited movement. The pressure quickly built behind Gymir’s groin, and then it went past the point of no return. He was plunging into orgasim, and nothing would stop it.

Instinctively, Gymir increased the rate of movement again, the sizzling pleasure of an imminent orgasim running up his thighs. The contact of their bodies now created a loud rhythm. Yendenel’s neck and breasts bounced with the intensity of his frenzy towards orgasim. Her eyes were tightly closed, her mouth opened wide in a silent yell, her legs were raised straight and stiff into the air in a V-shape. Her head fell back so Gymir could only see her throat and the underside of her chin.  
Electric pleasure jolted through Gymir, and with a final thrust, he pulled Yendenel as deeply onto himself he could, his climax boiling through his mind and body, his cock pulsing as it disgorged months of sexual frustration into Yendenel’s tightness.

Yendenel let out a series of musical squeaks, raising her head back towards Gymir slightly, then letting it fall back again. Her body seemed to be convulsing in Gymir’s hands, her outstretched legs straining to stretch further and quivering in mid-air, her hands were iron tight on his forearms, her insides were tight and quivering up and down the length of Gymir’s pulsing cock.

The intensity quickly faded. Gymir pulled Yendenl’s upper body toward him, not wanting yet to remove himself from her. She fell gratefully into his chest, eyes closed, breathing heavily, her arms resting against his chest. He sat back down, her sitting in his lap, still impaled upon him, intermittent quivers still running through her body, her warm breath a tingle on one of his nipples. They sat there there in shallow water, linked still, breathing heavily, recovering from the intensity of the shared experience. Neither could find words for several minutes, enjoying the feeling of each other in the aftermath.

Gymir could not believe the course of his life that led him to this moment- a few weeks ago, he was muddy, dirty, in a camp of men. Now he was on the side of the cliff, half submerged in blissfully warm water, and a beautiful elven warrior was clutched against him.

Yendenel finally aroused herself and nuzzled against him, half -yawning, half-purring. “You are definitely staying in my tent tonight, yes?”

“Of course.”


End file.
